a boat that bumps into the dock so soft, i bump into situations that should arouse anxiety but i feel nothing. i shut off my alarms, i miss meetings, i hear your opinions of me. the fucking church clock with its noon bells finally pulling me out of my tedious nightmare of storing my cast irons in a room. THINGS: i gotta hold onto them. they make me legitimate.
look at an older person’s picture and imagine the choices they made that got them there. inane choices, self-serving. in the end falling down that funnel, plopping onto the sandy pile of discarded meta-thoughts like everyone else. like everyone else.
that’s what is hurting a lot this week. how “everyone else” everyone else is. but you, you were different, and im not just saying that bc you’re dead. you filled a room, but you always tucked your shoes out of the way. you folded your shirts immediately. i picture you insisting on sleeping on the floor so your mom wouldn’t spend money on a bed for you. your long body. you, cheery, relishing the floor. you, always, needing none of the comforts, none of the THINGS. you existed purely as yourself, you didn’t need materials or credibility. you were so used to being stripped bare that you just were. you were great and i loved you and you looked into my eyes and said you loved me. so many times. you loved me. and that makes me feel like i could keep going. even though without you the loneliness is resounding. i will become that older person in the photo. ppl will see me as if i never had a past. ppl will see me and not see you, not see the echoing loss of you.
i think a lot of that sunday a few days before you died. “i feel like im gonna die soon.” how did you know? why did you tell me? how did you leave me here?
people make plans 